


A Super Solid History of the “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy(s),” c. The Beginning (or There About) to Now-ish

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, archive warning: as we all know, archive warning: first fic alert, archive warning: formless beings experience form, archive warning: it's a nightmare, archive warning: it's a treatise about love, archive warning: the witty british narrator is strong with this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 17:56:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: Human beings are absolutefoolswhen it comes to love. It’s largely the reason why God, in all Herinfinitewisdom, so cleverly decided that the beings in Her employ (and thereafter) would have nought to do with such petty, earthly matters. Not they had seen a memo or anything, but it merely seemsobvious, does it not?





	A Super Solid History of the “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy(s),” c. The Beginning (or There About) to Now-ish

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! Here be my very first _Good Omens_ fic. Please note that I have only just started the novel and so this is mostly a product of my having watched the series several times over. Should you have any interest, I do post my writing on Tumblr, [**@hencethebravery**](http://hencethebravery.tumblr.com).

Perhaps one of the cruelest tricks that God has ever played (and the list was indeed long) was in allowing angels to believe they were incapable of love. There is some amount of debate as to whether or not this was entirely by accident. She was a busy woman after all━perhaps that was why it, the question of whether or not angels were truly capable of love, had slipped through one of her metaphysical _ cracks _ (of which, admittedly, there were _ many_). Those who managed to refrain from falling had quite an easier time believing this particular theory to be very much the case. A largely unspoken, slightly offended, “She would _ never_,” followed by an affirmation of the belief in the long held assumption that they were above such things anyway, so really, what did it even matter, and can we _ please _ return to the task at hand?

Those who _ did _ happen to fall on the other hand, went in rather the opposite direction. In a somewhat convoluted fashion (they were _ technically _ still angels after all), demons argued that, no, celestial beings had _ never _ been capable of love, and, yes, this was done with _ abundant _ amounts of purpose. Not to mention the longstanding rumor that perhaps they were _ always _ capable, which served the purpose of both dividing and controlling the heavenly population by means of dispensing vague, unverified information. And to the more skeptical among them they might say, “Well, she’s _ God _ isn’t she? It’s not as if she lacks the ability.”

In point of fact, they were both wrong.

* * *

From the very moment they had begun their stint upon the Earth, Aziraphale had often pondered the nature of love. They had heard the rumors, of course, not that they held much affinity for such behavior. _ No good has ever come from a rumor_, they thought, particularly when their mind was especially prone to recalling those terrible centuries of heavenly warfare. No taste for it━the whispering between nebulas; the speculating of who would be staying and who would be going. Aziraphale had often suspected that it was part of the reason why Crowley had ended up doing… what he did. That perhaps the _ assumption _ they would fall did more to provoke the descent than anything else. It was a shame, but it had been so long ago, and there didn’t seem to be much to do about it now, at any rate.

Regardless, the question of love as it pertained to earthly beings, that made rather a bit more sense. Not to the humans themselves of course, but to Aziraphale, and even to Crowley, the emotion was in fact easily explained and somewhat predictable when applied in almost every conceivable situation. Usually.

“There is no _ possible _ way that girl is worth so few goats.”

Aziraphale had never felt truly comfortable with early human rituals as they pertained to establishing their various relationships. The use of the dowry, for example, particularly when a father might value a herd of sheep over the life of his child (and at this point in time, rather too young, in _ their _ estimation), stirred something… untoward in their gut.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

Even then, Crowley had possessed the somewhat uncanny ability to speak the words that Aziraphale often thought but feared to say aloud, and while a part of them was grateful to hear them spoken, the other part was curious as to how their supposed enemy could be so well-attuned to their thoughts. _ Could be the point, I suppose_, they thought, looking quickly away before Crowley could notice, _ to catch us unawares with their _ ** _deceptive_ ** _ bouts of intimacy. _

“Well there, Aziraphale, how ‘bout it? Can I count on you?”

“Oh, um, my apologies,” they stammered, unfamiliar fleshy fingers tangling together, “count on me for what?”

“Your _ discretion_,” Crowley reiterated with an air of unrepentant espionage curling around the crown of their head, “she is worth _ far _ more goats than... _ that_.”

Aziraphale envied the demon’s seemingly instinctive use of their own hands; tossed about in the air, waved vaguely in the direction of the unfortunate scene which played out before them. How _ did _ one use one’s _ own hands _ as a means of further emphasizing their point? Marvelous. They would have to spend more time working on that.

“_ Aziraphale _,” Crowley repeated, one eyebrow raised smartly above their golden eye, “I know you can’t be a fan of this either.”

“Well, no,” they admitted, “but I am merely here to _ observe_, and I did promise myself that last time would be the _ last time_.”

Crowley hummed with a mildly infuriating tone of _ knowing _ skepticism (which Aziraphale didn’t much appreciate), “Alright, well, if you’re here to _ observe _ and all, I guess there’s nothing you’d be able to do about _ this_.”

Aziraphale was, as it turned out, not quite quick enough in noting that, as a matter of fact, yes, they would be well within their rights to interfere when a _ demon _ was involved, but by that point Crowley had vanished from their side, and a slithering serpent had already begun making its way towards the feet of the large old bearded gentleman who _ had _ offered far too few goats for so young and bright a person.

* * *

It was right around the time human beings started getting rather more polite with their food that Aziraphale managed to develop a fair higher degree of grace with his own hands. Rather difficult to eat a steaming bowl of noodles without the use of… “chop-sticks.” Gracious, Gabriel would be _ horrified _ by the very idea. Not just by the “sullying of the vessel,” but the notion that one might do so with _ sticks_? Unthinkable. Regardless, it all came fairly easy after that (the hands); throwing a pair of dice, holding a quill or a pair of knitting needles. After a time he discovered that he very much enjoyed the tactility━the variety of sensations felt on the surface of the skin he had been ordered to have.

He had also, around this time, begun to go about being referred to as “he.” Moreso to blend in than anything else. It was hard to pin down when exactly, but at some point humanity became far more reliant upon noting the difference. It made a certain kind of sense, he supposed, if they were going to insist upon such hierarchical-like systems to survive.

“They are _ Her _ creations after all,” Crowley reasoned, casually (almost _ certainly_, casually) observing Aziraphale’s hands as they cupped his bowl of broth.

Aziraphale made a somewhat half-hearted attempt to cool his soup, lest the demon sitting across from him note his discomfort. In as polite a fashion as possible, so as not to rock any proverbial boats, he made the potentially ill-advised decision to be _ predictable _and “play dumb.”

“And,” with a mild stutter, “and what is it you mean by that?”

“Oh, don’t be dense, Angel, you know exactly what I mean by _ that_.”

He hated when their conversations took these kinds of turns. When their differences became undeniable and he was forced to reconcile with the truth of their circumstances: That all evidence to the contrary, the demon sitting across from him was supposed to be his mortal enemy━and for what? Some… pesky disagreement? An oversimplification to be sure, it must be conceded, but all the same, for… what, exactly? What had it all been _ for_?

Having accepted the frequent refrain of Aziraphale’s silence in moments such as these, Crowley had returned to his own drink; a sharp yet sweet rice wine that Aziraphale had recommended. All the better for his own sanity, for his own return to his hot bowl of flavorful broth (with some kind of... fish base, in which large pieces of seaweed, accompanied by smaller cubes of _ to-fu _ floating alongside; absolutely _ fascinating_, by the way), and unsettling, unwelcome questions that did little good for him to ponder over. But ponder he inevitably would, and he felt it prudent to admit that he had himself often wondered what might have happened if he had been more… present during the whole debacle (the _ war_, as it were), or even if he had _ known _ Crowley at the time━would the outcome have been the same?

It doesn’t seem a particularly worthy avenue of thought to continue shambling down, especially if one were to consider the fact that it was all decided upon long, long ago; but as he sneaks a glance upwards, to the sight of a demon sat across from him at a table, taking careful sips of a rice wine he has no reason to drink (other than to acquiesce to Aziraphale’s own enthusiastic request) he does have to wonder, _ How bad can they _ ** _really_ ** _ be? _

It’s on this particular evening that Aziraphale and Crowley happen to “brush hands” for the very first time. Azirphale had, on occasion, been made aware of the concept, but had yet to fully partake in such an episode. Human beings seemed to make quite a _ to-do _ of the whole affair. He had borne witness to such things with his own eyes, and was rather struck by the intensity of something that seemed so bafflingly simple. But then again, that seemed to be the nature of love. At least as it pertained to human beings. Angels were immune to such things, clearly.

They had both reached for the bottle at the same time, is all. Nothing to fuss over. It was bound to happen sometime━trapped as they were in these rather cumbersome… _ things_; adjusting to the speed and the _ space _ of it all. Moving with both certainty and uncertainty, holding things too tightly or not tightly enough. Silly, unreliable things. You _ had _ to wonder what She’d been thinking (not that Aziraphale would ever say so, of course).

The poets will speak of a spark, but Aziraphale didn’t much know about all of _ that_. He could acknowledge a warmth, perhaps even a… tingle? In retrospect he might even recall a raising of the soft hairs along his arms. But really, there’s not much to say about it. Other than the fact that from the perspective of an outsider there was perhaps an unnatural pause. A stiffness that mortal beings struggled to find. Most living, physical beings required breath you see━they are frequently at the whims of their world; it is, quite nearly, impossible _ not _ to be in motion for any extended period of time. That was just the way She wanted it. The unrepentant motion. The force. The push forwards. Don’t stop, _ never stop_. Until, you know, She says so.

These two beings, however, they weren’t _ human _ beings. They were created by God, of course, but they were relatively new to this “body,” business, and as such they still seemed to be encountering the unfortunate and inconvenient side effects. _ Touch _ being just one of many. Angels didn’t really touch in the same way humans did. Their natural forms failed to really give them the ability. They did in fact… collide with each other from time to time, but it was limitless. There was no barrier. If anything, it was a bit unpleasant━the lack of boundaries. Something about “seamless teamwork,” is what Aziraphale could recall from his discussions with Gabriel, or Michael. It was difficult to tell the difference sometimes. Regardless (or perhaps irregardless), human touch would appear to be quite a bit different. Because there was a pretty significant boundary, and for whatever reason that Aziraphale had yet to identify, it felt somehow _ more _ intimate than the traditional, angelic “brushing of hands,” as it were.

Crowley, in a rare moment of clumsiness, must have felt similarly because in his shock had pulled his hand back so swiftly that he managed to knock the half-empty bottle to the table with a soft _ snick_, with a gentle, rhythmic dripping of the remaining wine to follow.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale muttered, moving quickly to right the bottle and dab at the developing stain. Crowley had stood rather abruptly after that, and not in the smooth, serpent-like manner that Aziraphale had become accustomed to, and with hardly a “so long,” turned and fled the scene. They would never mention that particular moment again, but Aziraphale, to his great, _ great _ consternation, did struggle to put it entirely out of his mind.

* * *

Oh, _ centuries _ pass. Not entirely unlike an unfathomably long sigh, the world continues as the world often does. As do the angels and the demons playing their parts in some… hip yet indescribably vague off-broadway production (with _ no _ discernible plot) written by and for an audience of precisely _ one_. Maybe. Probably. Over the course of The Great Exhale (™), Aziraphale _ observes_. He learns. Which should be obvious, as that was something of the job assigned to him in the first place, but he really takes a _ genuine _ interest in the task. So much so that he keenly starts to observe _ other _ observers, humans who frequently come to be called “authors.” Authors are truly _ outstanding _ observers in their own right; even going so far as to record their observations in impressively long works of art━in letters and in image, the authors and artists in question lend a helpful amount of weightiness to a position he _ had _ come to doubt on occasion.

“They see things in ways we can’t, you see,” Aziraphale had tried explaining to Gabriel during one unexpected (and painfully awkward) meeting. As he had come to expect, Gabriel listened with a look of mild confusion (and pity), but it didn’t bother Aziraphale all that much. He had his books. “You can tell the others there’s no reason to worry,” he continued quickly, hoping their conversation had reached its conclusion, “I have all we need right here.”

“No surprises, Aziraphale,” Gabriel warned in goodbye, slipping out the door, “and remember, they can’t see _ nearly _ as well as we can.”

“Well, we know _ that’s _ not true.”

The surprising (yet unmistakable) tenor of Crowley’s voice echoed from the darkness of Aziraphale’s office, which had been empty the last he checked. The angel in question could do little to prevent the slight hitch in his breathing, concerned with not only the unexpected appearance of a _ demon_, but so quickly after the departure of an angel that would certainly see said demon immediately and irrevocably _ smited_.

“That’s cheeky,” Aziraphale mumbled as Crowley sauntered out of the back room, his hair in its usual impeccable _ coif_.

Shortly after Aziraphale acquired the bookshop, and not without some degree of honest ignorance as to why, Crowley did what he unfortunately happened to do best, and asked Aziraphale precisely what was the _ point _ of it all? And as had become usual practice, Aziraphale had a maddeningly difficult time coming up with an answer.

“You know, I’m not quite sure,” he finally admitted, “as soon as I do I shall let you know.”

“With bated breath, Angel,” Crowley had responded in distraction, his own nose lost in one of Aziraphale’s many books that he had seemingly no definitive explanation for.

* * *

The thing about Aziraphale’s exchange with the archangel Gabriel, that is the somewhat truncated version of an answer to Crowley’s “why,” was much longer and perhaps more blasphemous than Gabriel wanted to hear. But it was, possibly, _ exactly _ the kind of thing a demon (or rather, _ this _ demon) _ would _ want to hear.

Though Gabriel’s visit made for something of a stressful few hours, it was a particularly lovely day nonetheless. The leaves had begun changing their colors, but it was still pleasantly warm when standing in the sun, and should he feel just a touch _ too _ warm, a perfectly timed (some might say, _ miraculously _ timed) gust of wind would breeze on through the open window. Despite the fresh autumnal air, the smell of the books often lingered; the unmistakable scent of old paper and ink blending seamlessly with the decaying leaves which wound through the air and along the pavement.

“Do you happen to recall,” Aziraphale began, pouring Crowley an exquisitely steeped cup of Earl Grey, “when I first acquired this shop?”

In so much as Crowley _ could _ be predictable, he did, quite predictably, feign forgetfulness (not that angels _ or _ demons could forget very much by the very fact of their design). “Not certain,” he pondered theatrically, his sharp chin resting in the palm of his hand. “About what _ century _ was this, d’you think?”

Making the conscientious decision to refuse to participate in Crowley’s strange theatrics, Aziraphale continued, adjusting his vest as if it had suddenly shrunk while he was wearing it (which was certainly possible, he supposed). “Well, you had asked of me an admittedly fair question as to why I had purchased the shop at all, and I had told you I wasn’t quite certain as to why, and━”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, taking a sip of his tea, “let’s hear it then.”

“Well,” he began, somewhat taken aback by Crowley’s abrupt demand for an answer he had recently _ pretended _ to have forgotten, “I━I do believe it might have something to do with… love. Of all things.”

Crowley’s nose did indeed wrinkle, as if a bad sort of smell had passed beneath it from having even _ heard _ the word, but he _ did _ have a thoughtful look. If Aziraphale had to describe it, he might find himself comparing it to a rather more subdued version of the look that had passed over _ Crawley’s _ face subsequent to the infrequently mentioned Flaming Sword Incident (™). An expression of pleased surprise which, in retrospect, betrayed a yearning optimism that most demons should not, under any circumstances, possess.

See, as it happened, Aziraphale had been doing a lot of thinking as of late. _ Not a great habit_, a stern-looking Gabriel would often scold in his head, _ It’s all been figured out anyway, no need to go reinventing the wheel. _ As it happened, Gabriel was quite unimpressed with the invention of the wheel. No great feat, in his estimation. Not that he found humans to be impressive in most cases. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him, he supposed. Gabriel hadn’t been tasked with the job Aziraphale had━maybe if he had been, he would’ve arrived at similar conclusions (likely not so, but it was hard for Aziraphale to deny giving others the benefit of the doubt).

If you _ were _ in fact playing one of the two roles assigned to you (that of Angel or Demon), you might be privy to something of a hotly debated topic. Love. What was it? Who was capable of it? Was it a uniquely human trait? Was it freely available to _ all _ beings? And of course, as was the question in most things, how in the world was _ God _ involved in all this?

“Oh, Angel, not _ this _ old… _ chestnut_,” Crowley nearly spat. Despite the darkened frames over his eyes, Aziraphale practically _ felt _ his rolling of them.

“Now, hold on,” he continued, hoping to cut Crowley off at some self-righteous pass he knew wasn’t far behind, “just… wait.”

Obviously, it was rather difficult for _ anyone _ to speculate with any degree of certainty the true machinations of God’s mind. Whether God had designed _ everything _ (angels included) with the capability to feel and/or express love in its entirety or not, Aziraphale had begun to wonder whether or not it very much mattered (the debate, that is). You had to start with the Assumption (™).

“Which is…?”

A self-fulfilling prophecy. An angel such as Aziraphale, _ assuming _ that it didn’t much matter (whether or not God had given angels the capacity for love), which was the _ general _ opinion of the heavenly chorus━or Crowley and other demons similarly _ assuming _ it was all a vile manipulation borne of boredom and the Almighty’s irrepressible urge to have a hand (metaphorically speaking) in just about everything. All this and still the usual refrain from _ both _ sides: Humans and love, they know not what they do. As if the heavenly (or not so heavenly) were, at the very least, _ immune_.

“It’s the isolation you see,” Aziraphale managed to somewhat tangientally conclude, “the being… _ trapped_, as it were. In their bodies.”

It was in that moment that Aziraphale worried whether or not he had gotten a tad too _ close _ to the Spilled Wine Incident (™) which had occurred several centuries earlier ( _ long _ unspoken of). Wondered if perhaps Crowlely had, in his own time, reached a similar conclusion, and was in fact thinking the same _ exact _ thing. That of angelic… _ mingling _ and the somewhat invasive ability to see into the heart of someone’s _ soul_, versus the perfectly human ability to hardly know a person at all except perhaps through a brief brushing of hands. The arrangement of words on a page. The splashes of color on a canvas. That perhaps God, in all her… strange, bureaucratic dereliction of parental duty had in fact given human beings one _ single _ instance of superiority.

“Love.”

In a limit imposed by God, human beings could only love one another given truly _ uncomfortable _ degrees of uncertainty, and what angel or demon had _ ever _ taken such a risk?

_ In case you (the reader) were wondering_, interrupted God with a _ very _ gentle boom (otherwise one’s head was quite likely to explode), _ it’s them. The two of them. Idiots. _

“So, the bookshop,” Crowley spoke, filling the void of Aziraphale’s silence, “you wanted to know more about this… _Risky Business_?”

There was almost certainly the undercurrent of a joke in there that Aziraphale would require an explanation for at some other juncture, but for now he merely nodded. “I believe so,” smiling into his cup, “for how valuable _ are _ our observations if we’ve only ever made them through our own omniscience?”

Long, long story, very much shortened to a far more reasonable and linear degree: Since The Beginning, angels and demons had largely felt confident in their belief that they knew _ far _ more than the average human (Agnes Nutter aside, of course); and Aziraphale, in the midst of an occasional crisis as to who knew what and how well, had, with the acquisition of his quaint little bookshop been unconsciously soothed by a truth several centuries in the making. That angels, like humans, did _ not _ in fact know everything. That they were _ not _ necessarily immune to what it was they had supposed, and that, quite blessedly, there was just… _ so _ very much to _ know_. Even after all this time. Pages and pages and pages of things to know.

“It’s a fair point,” Crowley answered with a brief smile of his own, “never much cared for all the…” A signature wave of his free hand, bereft of his teacup, “...business anyway.” Referring of course to the traditional forms of angelic and/or demonic communication, which funnily enough, neither gentleman had experienced for quite some time.

And it was, during this particular turn in the narrative (quite nearing its conclusion, I promise you), that an angel and a demon would brush hands for a _ historical _ second time. Historic for the existence of hands, the fact of their briefly touching _ again_, and of course the reality of their circumstances (which Aziraphale had become rather tired of noting). They both reached for the teapot at the same moment you see, which, if one were a betting man (or woman), they _ might _ imagine a divine hand or two, or several, or however many hands God might prefer to have, in the mix. 

What made this particular time so different from the first was not only the fact of their very recent conversation, but the privilege of having several hundred _ years _ to have a good, rational think on the matter. So rational, in fact, that the urge to spring violently apart and knock something over seemed to be entirely absent.

“You know, I’ve often found it rather funny,” Aziraphale began quietly, painfully aware of where their fingers touched, “that despite my theory, you have often been quite good at mirroring my own thoughts.”

“Ironic,” Crowley agreed, “though you _ are _ rather easy to read I’m afraid.”

The beautiful thing about a brush is the secondary movements that might come after━particularly when the brush might provoke a pause. Most anything can occur in the midst of a pause. One might move a finger, for example, which in turn might elicit a not unpleasant shiver down one’s spine. There’s also the accompanying sound, which, for all his talk of humans being superior, it was a shame that their hearing was so dreadfully ordinary. It would be rather difficult for a human being to hear breath in the same way Aziraphale or Crowley might, sitting apart as they were. The intake and the exhale, all occurring within a brief, blissful pause which, along with their shared breath and the clinking of china, was accompanied by the continued autumnal breeze, and the scattering of dried foliage.

“I think,” Crowley continued, his hand moving, ever so slowly, to fully grasp Aziraphale’s own, “that we should consider testing your theory again.”

“Q-quite,” Aziraphale managed to answer, wonderfully overwhelmed by all the knowing (and marvelous not-knowing) occurring within the tangle of their hands. “I do enjoy a thorough undertaking of the scientific method.”

* * *

They were both wrong (the gossiping, angelic and demonic masses) because, in an infuriatingly on point God _ move_, they were both partially _ right_, weren’t they? Yes, of course, angels were _ always _ capable of love, but God was rather _ busy _ wasn’t She? She’s a deity just like any other━lots to do. Being in charge while also doing Her best to refrain from micromanaging, which She’d been told employees didn’t actually _ like_, so can you really blame her for being a bit aloof sometimes? An honest mistake, really. Nothing _ quite _ so sinister as the demons might like to believe, nor so benevolent as the angels would like to think. And besides, She’d given them humanity, and She did _ love _ a good game of risk.


End file.
